


Assumed Win

by Syllis



Series: Seek To Mend [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Cyrelian - Freeform, Gen, Marcus Vecellio - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 19:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20458370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syllis/pseuds/Syllis
Summary: Apprentice Mage J'zargo has won every competition at the College of Winterhold's evening games, by a country mile. But now the College's newest student, Thalmor Justiciar Cyrelian, has come down to join the competition.One of the most annoying things about Thalmor Justiciars is that they tend to be very, very good at what they do.





	Assumed Win

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the August 2019 prompt challenge on r/fanfiction: https://www.reddit.com/r/FanFiction/comments/cm921q/prompts_challenge_round_15_august_2019/
> 
> What did I get for my random trope? 
> 
> Assumed Win: https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/AssumedWin

J’zargo strutted down the hall triumphantly.

“See?” he crowed. 

“I’m coming,” I said, short with him because I now had acquired a headache. Yes, I could cast spells these days; no, I could not channel a great deal of magicka, and even the most trivial output was a huge effort. Master Colette said that my magickal health was still restoring itself, and that I ought to give it more time. 

It had been a solid year since I had suffered my magickal injury. I was getting very impatient indeed.

“Well, that is impressive,” I allowed, looking down the lane. All four of J'zargo's training dummies were still on fire; and the head of the one on the far left had had its head blown clean off; there was a corresponding scorch mark on the wall.

“It’s better than what I could manage,” said Brelyna, impressed. “Also, he did all that in under a second. Let’s go check on poor Onmund. I really don’t think fire magicka is his strong suit.”

Well, she was correct at that; Onmund was still working on it, under Faralda’s guidance. Faralda looked over at us and smiled. As soon as she saw that Brelyna wasn’t paying attention, she flicked her own tongue at her lower lip and grinned at me. I smiled right back. Last night had been a good night and my mood was too good. Even J’zargo’s antics weren’t going to rile me today.

“J’zargo would preferred to have this contest adjudged by the senior Destruction master,” the Khajiit grumped. “There is no reason why--”

I held my breath.

“It’s because Cyr’s a Justiciar; he’s told you that,” said Brelyna, impatiently. “So we can't have Faralda judging us. And for the same reason, we couldn’t have Nirya, even though her second specialization is Destruction. They’re both citizens of the Aldmeri Dominion and technically he has authority over them.”

I exhaled, slowly.

“And we couldn’t have Enthir because of that little dispute he got into with Onmund and Marcus over that necklace. Really, Enthir didn’t have to throw such a fit when he got the bad end of the bargain for once.” She squinted up at J'zargo. “Why are you complaining? Don’t you think it’s rather more prestigious to be judged by the Arch-Mage?”

J’zargo weighed this in his mind. Eventually he decided that he was happy about it.

Marcus, of course, was trailing around after Savos Aren like a puppy, asking about this and that; and generally making a nuisance of himself. He wanted to know why Onmund had cast a Firebolt at the wall (Onmund is short-sighted and had forgotten to grab his eyewear) and why Brelyna had used a flame rune; and then they finally ended up at my little row of pinned-up corpses.

Really, they draw x’s for eyes on those little burlap-sack heads to make them look more life-like. Er. Deathlike? In any event, it is ridiculous. 

“Huh,” said Onmund, when he got a look at my healthy-looking training dummies. There was a tiny scorched hole visible the front of one of them, but it otherwise appeared hale. “Looks like that ribbon’s going to J’zargo.”

And, indeed, the Arch-Mage was shaking his head over my failure and brandishing the ribbon in J'zargo's direction.

“See? J’zargo wins again!” said the Khajiit, glowing with triumph. He bounced around in one of his victory dances, whooping, his tail flailing about carelessly. By design or by accident, he whapped me across the back of the head, and I yelped.

I waited for the others to leave, so that I might have the opportunity to examine my training dummies. I had never done formal experiments with this spell before. Had it gone awry? All should have gone as planned, the Khajiit exultant in his victory, if not for...

It's always Marcus. 

Marcus was tugging at Savos Aren’s sleeve. They whispered together. Marcus has two gifts: his ability to sense magicka is excellent and his talent for causing disruption is... on par.

“Excuse me please,” said the Arch-Mage, and beckoned us downrange. “I would like for all of you to look at this, because it illustrates precisely what Master Faralda was talking about in her lecture last week.”

Oh, curse it. I had been happy to let J’zargo have his victory. What was I doing, showing off like this?

Obediently, we apprentices trooped downrange.

The Arch-Mage took his staff and poked at one of my dummies.

Immediately it fell apart into a pile of cinders.

The Arch-Mage then used his staff to point at the small black-edged entry hole that was center-of-mass in the next dummy.

“Care to explain this one, Justiciar?”

I cleared my throat. “It’s a variant of a Fireball spell; it ignites only once it has penetrated its target.” I held up my hand, my fingers less than a quarter-inch apart. “It is this big.”

They were all staring at me.

“How much magicka does it take to cast?” Onmund wanted to know, and I told him. Barely a flicker.

With a self-deprecating cough, I said. “It’s very useful in a battle scenario, when one needs to conserve effort. That was actually two casts; if you look, you can see where the second one bounced to the third dummy and the fourth. Unfortunately my first one failed to propagate correctly, so I had to cast again.”

The Arch-Mage went along and poked at the rest of my dummies, all of which fell into piles of ash and glowing-coals: “I have said this many times before, and I’ll say it again: raw magickal power does not equate to magickal ability, even for Destruction. I believe that the Justiciar’s performance here today is sufficiently illustrative.” He nodded at me, and handed me the ribbon. “Good work.”

J’zargo was completely deflated. Even his whiskers were drooping.

“Stop sulking. I was put up for consideration as a battlemage before you were even born,” I said to J'zargo, as we walked along. “And I had a great deal of training at the Academy before I was sent over here to Skyrim. War games, training exercises, the whole gamut. You learn to conserve magickal effort when it's that or freeze to death when you're belly-deep in icy mud. So it’s no reflection on your abilities, merely your methodology. And isn’t that what you’re here to learn?” 

J'zargo muttered something.

“Ask me in a couple of weeks and I’ll show you exactly how that spell works,” I promised.

J’zargo wanted to know why it would be a couple of weeks. He was looking disgruntled again. I was losing him.

This time my smile had a thin edge to it. “Swear by your moons that you will never tell a soul.”

Startled, he raised a hand. His claws glinted. "By Azurah," he said. "J'zargo will never betray this confidence."

“Good,” I said. “I know I can rely on you to keep your word. The truth is--” I dropped my voice. “I came up with a minimal-magicka spell because that is the only type of spell I can manage. That second cast was too much for me-- it nearly caused me to black out. I have almost no magicka. So I have no real future as a mage. You do. You will be an excellent mage.”

J’zargo hissed in shock. Then he gripped me by the arm and escorted me by force up to see Master Colette, after discerning that she was the one who knew all about my magickal injury. Thanks to his efforts, I got to drink a remarkably foul decoction; but at least the headache faded.

A couple of days later, Marcus brushed past me in the hall. “You owe me,” he breathed.

I sighed: “Now what?”

“For telling you about those exploding bullets.” Marcus tossed his head, impatiently, and the braids he’d just had set in flicked everywhere, just as annoying as a Khajiit’s tail. “Remember? From that world that Savos and I got stuck on. And you said I didn’t bring anything back worthwhile. Guess it was a pretty good inspiration for you, huh?”

“Fine,” I said, backing away from him a little. “I owe you. I’d rather it be money than a favor, though. Just tell me when you want to cash it in, all right?” I spread my hands. “It’ll probably be after next quarter when I get my remittance, though. Sorry there isn’t any real work in the offing.” Thalmor work, I meant; Marcus is an excellent operative for any task shy of heavy-armor combat, even if he does insist on remaining free-lance. He walked away, with a gesture that was either a good-bye or an obscenity; or both.

My ribbon got to decorate my wall in lonely splendor. 

It should come as no surprise that at the next fifteen Middas-night competitions, J’zargo took the win.

And I was happy to let him do it.


End file.
